


A Question of Faith

by lordvoldemortsnipple



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ""fraternizing"", 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Didn't Fall, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Slow Burn, asking for two (2) idiots, canon AU, crowley looking at the camera like he's on the office but @god, fellas is it gay to celestially broadcast your love at the slightest offense, idiots to lovers, oblivious fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordvoldemortsnipple/pseuds/lordvoldemortsnipple
Summary: It’s a miracle Crowley hasn’t Fallen yet, with the amount of doubts he has. There might be enough on Earth to make him question his faith, but with fine wine and good company, it’s easy to toe the line.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 77
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	A Question of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019by yours truly, beta'd by fluffy_teddybear, and the amazing banners were made by [the_problem_with_stardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_problem_with_stardust/profile) ([theproblemwithstardust](http://theproblemwithstardust.tumblr.com) at tumblr)
> 
> Also, on Crowley's name: if in canon Crowley remembers his job in Heaven, who he hang around with and why he Fell, then he remembers Heaven. Who's to say he didn't have Crowley as his original name, changed to Crawly out of spite and then went back to his real name?

DRAMATIS PERSONAE  
Crowley (An Angel who Saunters Vaguely Somewhere, hopefully not Downwards)  
Aziraphale (An Angel who Trip over an Unseen Adversary, remains Standing)

Garden of Eden  
In the Beginning, 4004 BC, Sunday 

Crowley had a simple job before the Beginning, and he appreciated most of it. He willed the stars into existence, made sure they bloomed into fantastical light, some red as his hair, some blue as blessings, some honey yellow as his eyes. He planted each star in the sky with the care and precision of a farmer tending their fields, although at this point in time farming is not yet a profession in existence. One should rather say then, that farmers plant their seeds with the care of an angel.

This angel was pulled away from his work when the last star in the sky was burning, and was called to do some planting on a different soil. The Garden of Eden was where he learned the feeling of earth under his fingernails, the importance of the small things, that with attention and care bloom into life, and bear the fruits of patient work. 

In the first night, he sits under a tree, gazing up to a sky brightened by his creation, a company that would last almost as long as himself. He can’t see them all from this angle on Earth, with these new eyes of his human body, but he trusts they stay steady in the sky. Angels, it seems, can’t be given the same benefit, as many Fell for reasons unknown to him, while he was populating the skies. He’s curious about it, and he wonders who among the ranks he knew are no longer divine, but it’s a passive wonder. There are few angels whose company he actually enjoyed, and he fears that the exceptions are the ones who took a dive into damnation.

Crowley is the first gardener, planting where God asks, tending at her request, and keeping his distance from the two humans who enjoy the fruit of his labor. He watches them bask in his sun, eat his fruits, wonder at his stars, and lie on his grass. 

He doesn’t see them eat the apple, but to be fair, he didn’t realise it was something they weren’t allowed to do, having skimmed over the latest memos from Upstairs. That day he stands on top of the wall guarding Eden on his own, watching the humans leave its protection and go out into the distance. The desert seems endless, just uninterrupted blocks of sand, the only thing falling off pattern black smoke over a hill, growing into the increasingly cloudy sky. He knows there are dangerous animals out there, but he had nothing more than a blessing to give the couple.

Crowley planted the seed of their undoing, was it right of him? Is he to blame for their downfall? He was, after all, the one who encouraged the tree into bearing those red apples. No one else watches the humans go, and he feels there’s no one he could ask these questions.

It’s under that very same tree he finds shelter when the first rain comes, too late to prevent his hair, tunic and wings from being soaked, heavy with water. It seems that without the humans, the garden no longer has purpose, which makes forcing them out rather… something Crowley isn’t sure he’s allowed to think. 

“Oh, heavens, it seems rather pointless, doesn’t it?” he asks, crouched down on the ground, the fresh smell of wet grass in his nostrils, his hand holding up a green philodendron leaf. He’s thinking of taking some with him, wherever he’s supposed to go next. “The humans are out there in the middle of _nothing_ while we’re here destroying their nurture, all because of an apple? It’s a bit of an overreaction, isn’t it?”

The plant doesn’t respond, and so far he hasn’t been struck by lightning, nor did he burst into infernal flames, so Crowley tries to explain it further. “I mean, it was their first offence. How were they supposed to know it was wrong to eat it when they only found out what was right and wrong _after_ eating the apple?”

“Apples!” comes from behind him. “Why, they’re delicious, aren’t they? Nothing wrong with satiating hunger, I believe.”

Crowley turns his body to look over his shoulder, eyes going from a white tunic, up to the hands interlocked by a navel, to a soft face, hair as white and fluffy as wings, and eyes a blue that shines as bright as Crowley’s stars. He looks gentle, from the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes to the polite smile on his face.

“Excuse me, my dear, I don’t mean to trouble,” the other says. “Do you happen to know where the humans are now? When I last saw them I was on apple tree duty, you see, and then....” his smile wobbles a bit, and he blinks a bit owlishly before his focus goes back to Crowley. “Well. Now I seem to have misplaced them! Would lose my head, I keep saying. And then this dreadful rain! Oh, I do hope they’ve just hidden away until the sun returns.”

Are they allowed to say rain is dreadful, when it’s God’s latest creation? The plants surrounding them thank it for quenching their thirst, but Crowley’s hair seems to be in a losing disagreement with the rain, curls breaking apart and sticking to his skin, to this human form he’s got for humans who are no longer there.

“They’re gone,” Crowley says, “God kicked them out.”

“Poor things. What happens now, I wonder?”

“Has to fit with the Great Plan somehow,” Crowley says, as he gets up, oddly delighted. No one else has ever wanted to discuss these things with him, Gabriel had been such a _bore_ among the stars.

“Of course, everything is.... ineffable,” the other says, with a glance down, wings moving to cover them from the rain, hiding them from the skies above. 

“I suppose,” Crowley says. “But that means it all has a point, doesn’t it? Good will win in the end, yadda, yadda, so everything just... has to have a reason, so it leads to the ineffable plan.”

“You really think so?” the other asks, moving a tad closer. 

Crowley doesn’t know where he stands on it. Claiming there’s an Ineffable Plan for only God to know seems like a good cop out when She’s the only one supposed to Be until the End. In a hundred billion years, who will remember this moment to question her what the point of creating humans was, if She was just going to punish them? Probably no one else will remember what humans even were. 

But he looks at Crowley with such hope. He _believes_ in a way Crowley never willed himself to do as well, with an honesty that would shame the archangels. It wouldn’t be kind to make him doubt.

“In the end,” Crowley says, “we’ll all have done what we’re supposed to.”

“Yes,” the stranger’s eyes seem to shine even further, steady on him, “I suppose we will.”

Nipur, Mesopotamia  
2053 BC

“Crowley! My, what are the odds? Oh, excuse me—”

Crowley turns around to see Aziraphale approach him, the crowd parting for him without a thought, some with a simple sidestep, others tripping and bumping into each other. None seem to notice the cause, even as he waves a hand in the air at Crowley, a delighted smile on his face. 

“Fancy running into you here,” Aziraphale says when he reaches him. “Are you too busy or can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

“Sure, anywhere you want to go,” Crowley says. He’s been in town for a week and hasn’t ordered a single plate of food. Aziraphale will already know where they make the best roast, fish, pastry or whatever he favours at the moment. Crowley does have work to do, he was on his way to meet the new warrior king, but Aziraphale’s eyes are warm and expectant. Crowley’s not a particular fan of eating, but he does enjoy watching Aziraphale eat.

Aziraphale smiles with his entire body, eyes brighter, a rise of his shoulders, the clasp of his hands, and Crowley could really not go anywhere but where the other leads him, down streets and up alleys. Eventually they end up in a little tavern he wouldn’t have found on his own, and inside, to a table set for two miraculously empty for them, the only of the kind in the establishment.

“You must try the lamb,” Aziraphale says as they sit down, “I hear it’s fantastic, roasted with pears. Pears, could you imagine such thing? These humans can put their heads to good use from time to time.”

Crowley does order the lamb, but only because he knows Aziraphale will want to eat it as well. The tavern maid leaves, and Crowley turns to Aziraphale again, arm thrown over the back of his chair, legs crossed in front of him. “Finished your job here yet, darling?”

“Oh no, I’ve only just arrived yesterday,” Aziraphale says. “And you?”

“Been here for a week,” Crowley says, “saw the whole thing, the battle, the king’s death, the new dynasty. It’s an odd way to make a king, isn’t it? If you kill the old ruler and appoint yourself as the new one, you’re just setting yourself up to be killed as well, aren’t you?”

“Barbaric,” Aziraphale says, clearly amused. “My, how long has it been, dear Crowley? If I had known you were here, I might have come sooner.”

“Don’t really know,” Crowley says casually. It’s been 543 years since Crowley last saw Aziraphale, a thousand years since they last spoke, and two millennia since they first met in the Garden. Crowley knows this very well.

“Was it that dreadful business with the flood?” Aziraphale asks, and his gaze, if possible, turns even warmer, a smile in every aspect, “I’ve heard that all the children somehow found a high enough mountain to spare themselves, by some miracle.”

“Funny,” Crowley raises his eyebrows, “because _I_ heard they carried innumerous tomes on their backs all the way up.”

“Funny how it works,” Aziraphale agrees, laughing with his eyes, “it was all meant to happen, I suppose. The rainbow _was_ lovely.”

Their order is placed in front of them, and Crowley gives his plate a quick glance before looking at the other one, and then at Aziraphale himself as he digs into his meal. There’s no hunger in Crowley for this plate to satisfy, so he’s content to lean onto the table, chin resting on his hand, while watching Aziraphale appreciate this aspect of humanity.

“Do try it, Crowley,” Aziraphale asks, “just a bite, it’s delicious.”

Crowley looks down at his plate, and then at Aziraphale, who’s paused his own meal to watch him in return. He really isn’t hungry, but why not? He cuts a piece, takes it into his mouth, tasting the tang of the lamb, the sweetness of the pear on his tongue, and finds himself making a pleased sound. By Aziraphale’s reaction, he might as well have joined the chorus of Heaven.

“That’s it, my dear boy,” Aziraphale smiles around the words, “wasn’t it worth it?”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Crowley feels warmed all over, from the flavors in his mouth to the pride in Aziraphale’s bright eyes. 

By the end of the meal, he’s finished the plate almost entirely by himself. By the end of his stay in Nipur, the warrior king has eased regulations and procedures for his empire, and has taken to calendarization. Crowley assumes it’s Aziraphale who pushes for the documental archives, and supposes that taxes were invented by humans all by themselves.

Troy  
1275 BC

Crowley steps out from inside his tent to look over the greek soldiers at rest around the encampment, taking their break from the siege. Most seem too tired to properly enjoy it, helmets put aside. Some soldiers gather in groups, others go find secluded spots to be alone for a moment, and some retreat in pairs, to forget the world around them for even just a second. 

He sits down on a turned log, and a glance around shows an odd man, sticking out with an armor of pale metal, and a white feathered helmet.

“Oi!” Crowley calls out, “Aziraphale!”

“Crowley!” the other spots him in return, going around a campfire to reach him, “How do you do?”

“Eh, you know. Here on a job too?” Crowley asks, but he’s not surprised. He’s noticed, as it has kept happening, that when Heaven gives him a new assignment, Aziraphale likely gets a similar message. Why Heaven hasn’t alerted him to it he doesn’t know, but he’s not going to ask either. They might start sending him off to different places, and Crowley rather enjoys Aziraphale’s company.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sits down on the log beside him. “Just dreadful work, this war. Have you been here long?”

“Joined in with the last batch,” Crowley says, “You?”

“I’ve been here for _ages_ ,” Aziraphale says. His hands are locked together on his lap by his fingers, so he speaks with a small shoulder movement, and eyes going up as if the complaint is aimed at God Herself. “I was here even before this whole mess started.”

“You with the Trojans, then?” Crowley asks, raising his eyebrows, leaning back a bit to look at him. Aziraphale does stand out among this army, with his different uniform, but that always seems to go over humans’ heads. “I’m with the Greeks.”

“My, are you really? How despicable, you foul fiend,” Aziraphale says, raising his chin, but then he smiles, “Should have figured from the get up. Red suits you.”

“Shouldn’t you be on that side of the wall?” Crowley asks, pointing at it with a tilt of his head.

'Yes, but I've heard tale of a hero out here, and figured I should take a look." He examines Crowley carefully." Pray tell, you don't happen to be him, do you?"

"Heavens, no," Crowley says, "I'm not going to fight. Besides, have you ever heard of a hero with a happy ending?"

"Well, there's—" Aziraphale stops, frowning. "I suppose I haven't, no." 

"Exactly!" Crowley points a finger at him. "That's life for you, putting yourself aside for a greater purpose, and getting no true reward in return." 

"That doesn't sound too sensible," Aziraphale says with some concern, "Is a greater purpose a good enough reason to give humans weapons and tell them to kill each other?" 

Crowley looks over the camp, frowning a bit. He's been ordered to inspire the Greeks, bless the worthy. "I don't think anyone is in the right here, to be honest. They're all fighting over a lady, where's the sense in that?" he pauses, and then adds carefully. "Did they tell you what's coming?" 

"The Trojans or the Greeks? I've heard tale of some horses." 

"Nasty creatures, horses," Crowley can't help but add, a twist to his nose to complement his disdain. "No, there's going to be an earthquake. Only the deserving will be spared."

"Only the deserving?" Aziraphale repeats, looking towards the wall, "And are these soldiers, here on duty, on orders from those who started this feud, deserving? Will they be spared, Crowley?" 

Crowley can't meet his eyes, guarding in words that once out would burn him. "That's the thing, isn't it? These humans have free will, they can do whatever they like. They can decide for themselves if going to war is good or not. They make these choices, they invent these things, but your actions always have consequences, darling, that's how it is."

"Yes, I know," Aziraphale's tone is bitter. "I was just wondering if She's giving out the right —" 

"Stop." Crowley lets out, heart in his throat. Is Aziraphale out of his mind? "Don't say that."

Aziraphale looks down at his lap, where Crowley's hand landed with the urge to quiet his friend. He gives Crowley a quick glance, and then covers his hand with one of his own, the cool, soft touch of his corporation a balm on Crowley's skin, simultaneously calming him down and increasing the speed of his heartbeat. 

"I just— it makes you wonder, doesn't it, my dear?" 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale's star bright eyes. If that question didn't strike Aziraphale down, then maybe… "It makes you think," he says slowly, relieved to see no consequences for his bold statement. 

He's rewarded with a soft grin full of relief from Aziraphale, and a squeeze of his hand, a thumb giving the back of his hand a slow stroke. Crowley feels a fire building inside of him, but surely damnation wouldn’t burn this sweet.

Lusitania  
54 BC

Crowley spots him first again this time around, but it’s a surprise, as he isn’t by the Atlantic on work, hasn’t gotten any new tasks from upstairs for some years, just some vague memos on work that isn’t related to him. He came to the Iberian coast for its weather, and hadn't been counting on any company.

Aziraphale has his back to him and his robes are different from the last time they saw each other, but there’s no mistaking him. Crowley feels as if he could recognize him anywhere, a beacon in his chest turning him towards Aziraphale if he so wishes, the same way you can ask these lusitanians where the ocean is, and they’ll know where to point no matter the distance.

Standing next to two other men, Aziraphale needlessly confirms who he is when he speaks. “Now, now, gentlemen, this is no way to go about this.” His hands go up, palms held in front of his to appease the men he’s speaking to, and Crowley doesn’t think twice before he stands beside him.

“Hello, darling, here with some friends?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale turns to him with some surprise. “These good-hearted fellows seem to be having a disagreement.” he turns to the two humans again. “And you’re such good friends! Surely this isn’t _worth_ it.”

“Worth it?” one man asks, face turning red. “Is my honor worth it, you ass!” he shouts, planting his hands on the other man’s chest and shoving him away. The other doesn’t think it worth to reply, just shoving right back.

Aziraphale makes a disappointed tutting click with his tongue, and turns to Crowley. “Fancy a drink?”

Crowley looks at the men, who are now trading shoving for punching. Free will is a funny thing. “Yeah, let’s,” he says, stepping back.

“So rude,” Aziraphale comments as he looks away from the fighting men, and they walk away. “And they seemed so polite just before.”

“I’m sure it was your presence,” Crowley says teasingly, the corner of his mouth closest to Aziraphale pulling into a smile, as if testing the distance between them. 

Aziraphale sends him a look, saying “Well, obviously,” with such a straight face that it makes Crowley laugh.

He shakes his head, red braid pulled over his shoulder to his back. “You pick the drink,” he says, “I’ll choose the place.”

“They have the most fantastic wine here,” Aziraphale says with enthusiasm as they move away, “it’s so round and earthy, it’s a marvel.”

Crowley watches the sun set over the treeline as he waits outside the small cabin Aziraphale went in to pick up the drink. He turns away from the bright orange star to see his friend come out, smiling at him as he lifts a bottle. “All done, dear, where are we off to?”

“Not far from here,” Crowley says. 

They go down some alleys, drinking the wine on their way. Aziraphale was right. It is earthy, filled with flavours, makes him think back to a garden, to vines he groomed, the fruit he watched over.

They pass by white houses which look increasingly grayish as the light fades. Soon enough the sounds from the streets quiet down, leaving the wind, and then the give and take of the ocean as the orchestra playing for their walk.

Crowley stops on the beginning of the beach to take off his sandals, and afterwards holds the wine bottle for Aziraphale to do the same. The sand isn’t quite cool yet, still warm from a day spent basking in the sun, and they walk closer to the waterline, sitting down only when the sand feels humid beneath their feet.

“This is quite lovely,” Aziraphale says softly, as to not disturb the waves, bringing the bottle to his lips to drink. “Have you been here before?”

“Passed by during the day,” Crowley says, “have you heard of Rome’s newest conquest?”

“Another?” Aziraphale passes him the bottle. “Where did they go to now?”

“Britain,” Crowley says, before he takes a sip. “That island up north.”

“Why on Earth would anyone want to conquer such a place?” Aziraphale asks with a frown, “It’s filled with barbarians, and it’s so dreadfully cold.”

“Beats me,” Crowley says, taking another sip handing back the bottle, “But it’s sort of incredible, isn’t it?”

“What is, how they did it?” 

“They passed right by this ocean,” Crowley waves towards it, “Humans are fantastic, aren’t they? Sure they’ve got their wars, pillaging and conquering, but they.... They’re so goddamn _creative_ , aren’t they? All the way from Rome to up there!”

“Quite the journey,” Aziraphale agrees. “Long way to go.”

“Exactly! They just push against everything She sets for them, they, look, they can’t just _walk_ over water, can they? So they make boats. But to make boats they need to cut trees, and their hands just aren’t made for that, so they make tools and battleships, and they go beyond the power of their own hands and feet, they leave the confinements She built for them and they just....go!”

Aziraphale smiles as he watches him push out a hand in the direction of the waves, before accepting the bottle again. 

“It’s a power unlike any other,” Crowley continues, “to look at what God has given you and decide it’s not enough. They defy the limits of their nature at every turn.”

He looks at the ocean again. With the sun gone, the horizon is hidden in the distance, the sky blending into the ocean, constellations reflected on the water. One day, he’s suddenly very sure, humans will sail among the stars.

He’s surrounded then, without expecting it, by a feeling that comes stronger than the Atlantic breeze, than the smell of the sea and the sound of waves pulling in from the land. Love, there’s love so strong he can breathe it.

He turns to look at his friend, who has his eyes down at the sand. Aziraphale loves this world just as he does. He always exudes the feeling, like a cologne that stays on Crowley’s skin for him to press his nose to in the years that pass without seeing each other. But now the love coming from him feels stronger, solid, warming Crowley down to the toes he has sank in the sand.

Can Aziraphale tell Crowley’s love? Can he feel it too? Could he, unlike Crowley, pick apart the feeling, and figure out at what it’s aimed? The wonders of Humanity are not all there is to it, after all.

Aziraphale looks back at him. “It is rather something,” he says, and his voice is as soft as the pull of the sea.

Kingdom of Wessex  
530 AC

Crowley hates being wet. He feels his hair stuck on his head, clinging to his shoulders and collarbones, down his back. The water is cold, and yet he remains standing on the lake, icy water lapping on his waist, his clothes pulling heavy on him. The two men walk without a backwards glance off of the shore and into the woods, bickering the whole way.

“Don’t tell me you’re not planning on using it, sire.”

“That woman just came out of the water, Merlin, I don’t think that’s the most trustworthy source of a weapon. Only an idiot would think otherwise.”

“Yeah? I think only an idiot would get the most powerful sword in existence and not even...”

The voices fade out as they finally move away, and Crowley picks up his skirt, taking long steps as he drags himself out of the water. Sometimes he hates the things they task him with. Why did he have to come out of a lake? He stops as he notices some rustling between the trees. No one else was supposed to come along at this moment, he had been told so by management. He stands still, unsure of what to do. Should he just back into the lake? He's really done with this freezing water.

"Excuse me, miss, oh!" 

Aziraphale stops by the tree line, mouth open to the side as he squints at the lake, head pulled forward before he smiles wide as he recognizes him. This time around, he’s wearing chainmail, with a grey cape draped over his shoulders. "Why, Crowley! Hello."

"Aziraphale," Crowley sighs, relieved. "Wasn't counting on you today."

"My dear, you're awfully wet, are you alright?"

"Had to perform a bit of a trick today," Crowley says, "Don't know what the deal is with water, but upstairs demanded it."

"Baptism, purity," Aziraphale says with a small wince, as he reaches his side, holding out a hand for him. 

Crowley takes it, finally stepping out of the water and onto the shore. Against his cold hand and wriggled fingers, Aziraphale's hand feels like a warm stone. He lets go of it to gather his hair in his hands and squeeze the water out of it, droplets falling over his arm. "Yeah, well, it doesn't feel like it."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says, hands closing on nothing as he watches Crowley lift the ends of his dress out of the water. "It does look unpleasant."

Crowley lifts the skirt further to inspect his boots, which are filled to the brim with water. "It didn't have to be this cold, that's all."

"Allow me," Aziraphale says, and snaps his fingers.

Crowley is suddenly dry, his skin and clothes warmed as if he had been basking in the sun as reptiles do. He smooths down his dress, hair curling slightly on the middle of his back. "Thanks," he says.

"You're very welcome," Aziraphale says, tilting his head a little as he watches him. "Did they ask you to present as female as well?"

"Just felt like it," Crowley says with a small shrug.

"It suits you just as well," Aziraphale says. 

"Thanks," Crowley is oddly pleased. He pulls a ribbon from one of the dress’ hidden pockets, and grabs the front of his hair, tying it on the back, away from his face. "Did you have work here too?"

"Yes, I do," Aziraphale says, "Are you done with yours?”

“Just gave the king his sword,” Crowley says, moving further away from the water, Aziraphale walking beside him. 

“The king is the blonde one, I suppose?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah, he came with his wizard,” Crowley says, “They’re supposed to bring peace.”

“With a sword?” Aziraphale asks.

“They seem to use those a lot,” Crowley replies.

“Sometimes we just can’t know the good our work will do,” Aziraphale says, “but one can have faith it will, somehow.”

They step into the woods, following the trail the king and the wizard left. It’s the closest path to civilization. He looks at Aziraphale, trusting no root will be on his path, no branch in his way. The other looks hesitant, weighted. “Is everything alright?”

Aziraphale gives him a tight smile. “Have you met them before? I saw them on their way here.”

Crowley needs a moment to get the context, “Just now, it’d ruin the whole thing otherwise.” 

“They bickered a lot,” Aziraphale says, with a soft smile, “but they care for each other very much.”

“And for this land.” The wizard had not looked away from the king once as Crowley came out of the water, and the king kept looking back at him, to make sure it was alright, to see if he was still there. The love Crowley felt on them let him know he was putting the sword in the right hands. They had bickered with each other the entire time.

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” Aziraphale continued, “what will happen to them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, a look of concern on his face as he turns to Crowley. “There’s a prophecy.”

Crowley pulls some hair behind his ear, eyes going up as he does his best not to be condescending. Aziraphale has picked an interest in prophecies over the centuries that hardly does any good. It’s the curse of prophets to either be ignored or wrong, Aziraphale collects both kinds as equals and shares them as gossip. “Darling, you should know better.”

“It’s just rather sad, but if you don’t want to know, I won’t tell,” Aziraphale gives him a small shrug, before changing the subject. “I had a sword like that, once. Well, not quite like that, it was on fire.”

“You had a flaming sword?” Crowley tries to recall to their previous meetings. “When?”

“If you must know,” Aziraphale says a bit more slowly, “it was....before.” At Crowley’s confused look he continues, “You know, in the Beginning. When I was on apple tree duty.”

“That’s when we met, you certainly didn’t have it on you then.”

“Oh, dear, no, not then, by that point I’d already— hm,” he looks like he regrets the course of this conversation.

Crowley can’t help but be curious, “Already what?”

“If you must know,” Aziraphale is needlessly looking at their path, “I, well, I lost it.”

“You what?”

“I lost it, alright?” Aziraphale says, clearly ashamed. “I don’t know where it went.”

“You...lost a flaming sword?” 

There’s a feeling bubbling in Crowley’s chest, pushing a smile on his face, eyes wide as he stares at Aziraphale. Dear Lord, how could someone so clever also be so dumb? There’s nothing, not on Earth nor Heaven that matches Aziraphale. He feels he should be standing closer, that his hands are empty and useless on his sides, he looks at Aziraphale and has the impulse to take action. God, he must exuding enough emotion for Gabriel to be feeling second hand embarrassment Upstairs, he needs to get this in check. 

Aziraphale acts as if he doesn’t notice, a kindness that only somewhat helps. “Are you sure you don’t want to know the prophecy, Crowley?”

The moment passes, but it’s a mercy. Crowley doesn’t know what he wanted to do, and moments between them will come in spades in the millenias to come. Maybe next time he’ll be prepared.

Sicily  
1350 AC

Crowley hates walking in the streets nowadays, hates breathing this still air, listening to the increasing silence of the past few years. Heaven doesn’t tell him how this plague came to be, how can it be stopped, and has instructed him to stay out of it, but it’s not God’s will that he sees in this black death. He does a few miracles, he even loses the memos from Heaven ordering him to stop, but it has little effect. He’s taken to blessing doctors and otherwise keeping his distance.

He’s here now despite all that because something rather unusual had happened. He had received a letter from Aziraphale, asking for a meeting, and as he spots Aziraphale standing against a railing, overlooking the ocean, it’s the first time it doesn’t happen by chance.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he says, moving to stand beside him, elbow on the railing supporting his weight. Over the railing there’s only the clear blue sky above and the water below, the sickness spreading over Europe hidden from sight.

Aziraphale glances at him, his smile weak. “Crowley, so good to see you. How do you do?”

He looks tired. He had as well the last few times Crowley met him, but there’s a new layer to it today that he can’t quite place. Might be that, just as Crowley, Aziraphale doesn’t agree with what’s happening. “Everything alright?”

“Everything’s tip top,” Aziraphale says, and then gives his head a shake. “Well, no, unfortunately. I have a favor to ask.”

“Whatever you want, darling,” Crowley says, leaning a bit closer. 

“I… I couldn’t put this in writing, you see,” Aziraphale continues, “mail can be intercepted, and this is rather unorthodox. Wouldn’t want our authorities to catch onto it.”

“What is it?” Crowley asks, excitement building in his chest for the first time in years. 

“I’d be very grateful,” Aziraphale says, looking away from him, “if you could secure me some... well, some holy water.”

“Holy water?” Crowley asks, surprised. He doesn’t see what this has to do with the black plague. “Sure, but can’t you get your own?”

Aziraphale gives him an uncomfortable look. “You know I can’t, dear.”

“Do I?” Crowley asks, having lost any sense in this conversation. “It’s not that hard.”

“I can’t just walk into a church, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, flustered.

“Why not?”

Aziraphale stops, mouth open, hands closing on the railings. “I know you’ve been terribly kind about my situation, my dear, but surely you must know I can’t go there.”

“I don’t understand,” Crowley says, looking him over, trying to figure out from sight what’s happening.

“Crowley, it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks, a frown marking his features, only aiming it at Crowley for a moment before he turns to the ocean again. “Holy places are, well, off limits to demons.”

Crowley blinks, something he rarely does, as he looks at Aziraphale. He should be connecting something, but he can’t, he can’t. “...Demons?”

“So, that’s the reason,” Aziraphale says, embarrassed, “I’d be ever so thankful if you could secure it for me.”

Crowley’s useless heart is hammering in his chest, almost taking a path up to his throat, clogging it in a hurry to leave. His hands are filled with action once more, and nothing stops him this time, an overwhelming feeling making him take a step forward, and grab Aziraphale by his arms, turning to face him properly, to see him.

“You’re a _demon_?” he asks, eyes travelling quickly across Aziraphale’s features, trying to spot any differences. Aziraphale looks as he always has, as soft as he was in the Beginning. Shouldn’t Crowley be able to see if something so important had happened to his only companion?

Aziraphale’s eyebrows are pulled together into a deeper frown as he looks back at him. “You didn’t know?”

“How was I supposed to know, you never told me!” Crowley replies, his voice louder, trying to be heard over his booming heartbeat.

“I thought.... I thought you knew, Crowley, and were being terribly polite about it,” Aziraphale says, voice trembling slightly, “You never knew?”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair, fingers digging at his scalp. “When did this happen? I didn’t notice any change— ”

“Before we met,” Aziraphale says, his hands closing together over his stomach, taking a step back to face him properly. His eyes are heavy and there’s something terribly sad in the sag of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.

“That— you— ” Crowley doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking. He’s been a fool. He looks at Aziraphale, trying to understand _anything_. He’s an adversary, a pawn of Hell, and when Crowley thought Aziraphale was helping humanity alongside him, he was actually tempting them to damnation, working against him. “You’ve been… tempting me!” 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asks, lifting his chin.

“You,” Crowley points at him, finger almost pushing at his chest, “you’ve been making me try things, and think, and say... oh, that’d be a great victory for Hell, wouldn’t it? To make an angel Fall!”

“Now, dear boy,” Aziraphale starts, voice sterner, but Crowley speaks over him.

“You’re a demon!” Crowley lets out, and then his teeth bare, his voice almost a hiss, “You’re the _enemy_.”

Aziraphale takes another step back. “Crowley, please.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright, his hands are clenched together, and Crowley wants to give in to it. The devil doesn’t dress to frighten you, he wears your desires over his skin.

“You’re my damnation.”

“ _Crowley_.”

He barely hears his name being called, Aziraphale’s voice pale as he turns his face away. Crowley’s hands, these human hands want to grab at him, for what exactly he can’t tell, he can’t.

“Don’t contact me again,” Crowley lets out, turning on his heels and walking away fast, giving himself no chance to look over his shoulder at who he thought was his friend.

There’s death in the streets and a demon at his back, and good God, Crowley hates the fourteenth century. 

A Mostly Empty Bedroom  
1392 AC

Crowley refuses to open his eyes, face buried in the pillow as he tries to force himself back to sleep, the arm beneath it pulling it closer, as he curls his whole body into it, sheets dragging with him as he moves. It’s no use, there are sounds in the streets and light pouring in from the cracks in the blinder of the window, and he’s awake now.

He sighs, turning to lie on his back, eyes facing the stained ceiling above him, his movements slow as his body leaves his slumber. He’s been sleeping for… a few decades, at least, having fallen drunk in bed hours after Aziraphale’s revelation.

He looks up, honeyed eyes getting used to the daylight again, tongue moving over his teeth to chase away its dryness, and a hand comes up, fingers combing his long hair out of his face. 

“God,” he starts, slowly, “it’s me. Crowley. You know that. Just....just hoping for a few words, if you don’t mind.”

There is no reply.

“Right. Figured just as much. Guess I’ll say all the words, then,” he closes his eyes. “Been wondering how I haven’t Fallen already. I’ve been… _fraternizing_ with a demon for about… Heavens, five thousand years, give or take? And I— , well, you know.”

He opens one eye. Still no sign of anything. 

“And I know I ask a lot of questions, Michael keeps going about it, and I figured- figured I was toeing the line a little bit, no harm there, but— but the thing is, is that faith? Can it be faith when you’re not sure? You can’t blame me for doubting the way You go about a couple of things, can You? The point, the point is.... I don’t know. You made me plant the seed of Humanity’s knowledge and didn’t allow me a taste of its fruit, so now all I can do is ask.”

Both eyes are open now, locked on a wet spot in the ceiling. 

“I’m not kind,” Crowley says, “I’m not _nice_ , I… I don’t get it. I don’t understand, why would you make me feel these, these _emotions_ and then have him—“ 

His eyes feel clouded, and he presses his lips together in a thin line. He brings a hand over his face, rubbing at it slowly before it drops on his chest. Once he stood by the tree that questioned humanity’s obedience of God, and by its shade he met a demon.

“Is this a test?”

He sighs. It’s not anger he feels at the lack of response, but he can’t deny his bitterness at the hypocrisy of the Divine. She created them all, she gave each living being their own natures, wants and needs, and then watches it all from a distance, like they’re performing an eternal play for Her, and only God gets to know the ending. They’re punished for things she built them to do, and one day he’ll be cast out of Heaven for staying true to the way She made him. Is that fair? 

Is God fair?

“You’re not,” he says, “You never were. It’s not fair, when the only point to all of this is Your entertainment. It’s why they all Fell in the Beginning, why you made me plant the apple tree in their home, why you’ve arranged Chance so I’d meet him time and again.”

He sits up, eyes still up to the ceiling, his hands clutching at the sheets by his sides, “Go on, then. If I’m to Fall, do it. What’s the point in delaying it any longer? Go for it. Do it! Have at it!” he spreads his arms in the air, “Why drag this on, eh? Come on! Smite me down, bring on the fire!”

He gives it a few moments, before he slumps back, falling onto the bed only in the literal sense of the word, a hand on his navel, the other arm bent against the top of his head, eyes on the ceiling. The wet spot looks like a bird of some kind.

“You punish us for doubting, but I bet in the end you, you’re the most uncertain of us all. Bet you don’t know the ending either.”

The light coming from the blinder seem brighter, as if the sun had been covered by clouds up to that moment, illuminating the room even further, warm light pouring in, climbing as the angle changes, from the floor to the bed, then his face.

“Heavens, no.” Crowley mutters, closing his eyes and snapping his fingers, blinder miraculously fixed, and darkness setting into the room once again. Giving up on a reply, he tries to go back to sleep, at least until the end of this blasted century.

Florence  
1503 AC

Crowley doesn’t mean for it to happen when he spots the demon.

Aziraphale is standing by the Cathedral, his back turned almost entirely to him, speaking to two women, who listen intently to whatever he has to say. He’s dressed in pale grey, hair a white cloud on his head, and he hardly looks any different from any other century Crowley has seen him. Same as he looked last time in Sicily.

Crowley pulls the glasses he’s wearing a bit down his nose so he can look up directly at the sky. “ _Oh Lord_ , is this where I prove myself to You?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before he looks to the demon once more. She might not intervene, but Crowley has a choice to make. He could leave, he could walk away from this and stick to his resolve to avoid the demon, after all Aziraphale hasn't seen him yet.

But to walk away, he reasons with himself, would mean leaving those two poor women on the mercy of a demon, and as an angel that’s simply something he can’t do. So he fixes his glasses, these dirty yellow tinted lenses that paint the streets in gold, places a hand in a pocket, and moves closer.

“We can do it, we can,” he hears one of the ladies say as he approaches, “and we’ll meet again here, tonight?”

“I promise,” Aziraphale says.

“And you’ll do it?” the other asks, stepping a bit closer, clutching the first woman’s wrist. “You’ll do what we asked?”

“With pleasure,” Aziraphale answers, Crowley can hear his smile. “Now, don’t you forget, moments before midnight.”

“Thank you, we can hardly… wait,” the first lady says again, her sentence hesitant as she spots Crowley reaching them.

“Wait for what?” Crowley asks casually, stopping beside Aziraphale.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with some surprise, taking a step in the opposite direction. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Crowley feels, oddly, as if he stepped into something he shouldn’t, as if he wasn’t doing the innocent women a favor by interrupting this.

“Excuse us, we must take our leave,” one of the women says, and they both dip their heads. “Good day.”

“Good day!” Aziraphale calls back as they leave, and only after does he speak to Crowley again, without looking at him. “That was very rude of you.”

“And a demon would know all about rude, wouldn’t it?” Crowley asks, turning his body to face him properly.

Aziraphale still refuses to look at him. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, just doing my duty,” Crowley says, taking a few steps to stand in front of him, “you know, stopping you from doing yours.”

“Oh, really now,” Aziraphale says, finally meeting his eyes. There’s a frown on his face, and a fire in gaze. “Thwarting my wiles, were you?”

“Not when you put it like that, no,” Crowley says, making a face. 

“Well, congratulations, you’ve made them leave. Was that all?” 

There’s something unsettling in Aziraphale’s voice, as if it wasn’t made to sound so cold, or if Crowley wasn’t built to hear it from him. He doesn’t like it, it feels like a rumble under his skin, as if his corporation is failing him. 

“Yeah, that was it,” he says, pulling his glasses further up his nose. “I’m off. Ciao.”

He walks off, hands stuffed in his pockets as he makes himself not turn back, even as he hears Aziraphale answer prickly “Well, good day to you too.” He’s done what he came to do, he tells himself, he really shouldn’t do any different.

Crowley tries to take his mind off it during the evening, picking up a sketch from his friend Leonardo, walking in the streets as the sun fades out, trying not to think of spots he could be at right now with a lifelong friend, watching him enjoy a warm meal. It’s gluttony, he insists, even as he buys some bottles of wine, as he watches from behind his glasses what people eat on the street.

“Well, well done me,” Crowley says later, looking up at the starry sky, bottle dangling from his fingers. “This is still bullshit, by the way. You and Your way—”

He’s interrupted by the Cathedral’s bell ring, and he quiets as he listens to it go, two, three, four, five,

With a sigh, he brings the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back.

six, seven, eight, nine,

“Oh, very funny, You,” he mutters, shoving the cork back into the bottle, before picking up the second one from the floor, holding it under his arm. “Hilarious.”

ten, eleven, twelve.

And then he’s back at the Cathedral, pressing against a tall, solid wall, his white clothes blending into it as he moves along to the corner, to listen in to whatever Aziraphale is up to.

“...and to forsake all others, keeping yourself only to...”

Crowley, to know what Aziraphale is damning the poor ladies into, peeks over the corner just for a moment, before he’s leaning back against the wall. He blinks, a frown marking his face, mouth open as he tries to mouth off a question, and then he closes it, leaning over again, to make sure he saw it right.

The ladies seem to have put on their best dresses, colorful ribbons placed on their clothes and hair, as they stand before an Aziraphale who, for the first time since Crowley met him, is dressed in black.

“I do so vow,” one of the ladies says, a tremble in her voice.

“May your union be blessed,” Aziraphale, his hand moving in an arc in front of them, and Crowley feels a shift in reality. 

The women laugh, clutching each other’s hands, and then they both lean into each other at once, to kiss. It’s quick, and they’re grinning, laughing again, eyes bright, and their love hits Crowley right on, making him press a hand to his chest as he leans back against the wall.

With no purpose for it, his heart is hammering in his chest as he waits for their laughter to fade, and he stays still, listening in, as they thank the demon.

“You’re most welcome,” Aziraphale says, voice as the summer, and Crowley can just picture his face, the tender lift of his eyebrows, the satisfied smile over a pleasant meal. “Now quick, before your families realize you’re gone.”

“Blessings upon you, Brother, farewell!” 

Crowley waits for a little longer, as the ladies leave, and only then does he make his presence known. “A man of the cloth, are you now?”

“...Crowley?”

He steps away from the wall, turning the corner. “An angel was a bit too much, I suppose, so you’re stepping down into posing as a holy man, I see?”

“I, well, it is none of your business,” Aziraphale says, fingers dipping into his collar, pulling at it, “it was for a good cause, after all.”

“What did you do to them?” Crowley leans to press a shoulder against the wall, eyes on the demon, “when you _blessed_ them.”

“If you must know,” Aziraphale starts strong, an open hand lowering a bit in front of him in a placenting gesture, “I’ve put a curse on them.”

“You.... you what?” Crowley asks, pushing his glasses up his head, thinking of the ladies laughing as they held each other.

“I’ve put a curse on those lovely ladies,” Aziraphale repeats, exhaling nervously, “Oh, I do hope it works, I’ve never gone at it quite like this, but I can’t bless often without being summoned Bellow, and it’s such dreadful work to go, and Hell is so filthy, I really can’t bear to visit often.”

“So if you can’t bless them you just doom them?”

“No, I’ve… they’re a trap, you see,” Aziraphale says, “whoever tries to sabotage their marriage is going to face some rather unfortunate consequences.”

“That’s rather.... Good? Bad?” Crowley frowns a bit. “...it’s.... nice. Not exactly how I’d think a demon would act.”

“You’ve met many, I suppose?” A sly look.

“Don’t know, apparently I can’t tell, can I?” Crowley asks, head tilted, his eyebrows going up as he looks at the demon.

“Crowley, you must know that was never my intention to hide what I am from you,” Aziraphale says, and he glances away, “I believed you to be my friend despite my nature.”

Their eyes meet just for a moment, before Aziraphale is looking away once more.

Crowley scratches at his cheek, mouth filled with words that come and go, as waves bring rocks and shells onto the shore only to pull them back in again. He doesn’t quite know how to express that Aziraphale’s nature seems unnatural with his new knowledge. He pulls his glasses down, back on, buying time.

“You look different,” Aziraphale offers, a foot coming a bit closer.

“Yeah, well, it’s been over a century, hasn’t it?” Crowley looks away, “Same body, anyhow.”

“I meant.... fine, be that way,” Aziraphale turns away again, the silence lingering once more.

Crowley looks down, shoulders rising as he tries to think of how to explain to Aziraphale that, after his century long nap, it seemed easier to stand in the sunlight with shades shielding his eyes. “The hair does feel a bit short,” he admits, a hand coming to cup the bare side of his neck, brushing at the ends of his hair, which is cut at his jawline. “But it’s fashionable, I suppose.”

“It’s a shame,” Aziraphale says, and then seems to catch himself, as he turns to look at Crowley, “but rather fine, of course, it’s, hum, respectable.”

“You fit in alright,” Crowley replies, eyes travelling over his corporation.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale smiles, hand on his stomach, looking down at himself for a moment, some of that familiar warmth back in his eyes as he looks at Crowley, “Do I really? I always feel dreadful in black.”

“ ‘Course you do,” Crowley says, and then adds, quickly, “That’s- that wasn’t it, was talking about the whole… looking like a human. You know, no funny animal bits? Thought demons couldn’t avoid that.”

“Oh, that,” Aziraphale says, “if you must know, you’ve seen that already when we, when we met.”

“When we met? You looked like an angel,” Crowley raises his eyebrows, glasses sliding down a bit, “White wings and everything!”

“Yes, well, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it,” Aziraphale says, “They’re supposed to be black after you Fall. Mine are... they’ve got some spots, you see, on the back, like a snowy owl.” Aziraphale closes his mouth for a moment, eyes off into the distance as he clutches his hands together. 

“After it happened,” Aziraphale continues, almost quietly, almost not saying it at all, “there was a moment I thought maybe I hadn’t— that I had been forgiven, maybe, even as it— well,” he stops, his voice as shaky as his smile as he looks at Crowley, “it was rather silly of me.”

Crowley closes his lips tightly, holding back the tide in his mouth, not sure of what would be brought onto the shore, and instead lifts his hand, holding out to Aziraphale the half drank bottle of wine. He watches Aziraphale drink from it, and clutch the bottle to his chest with both hands afterwards.

Then Crowley asks “Why did you Fall?” 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, a slight shudder visible on his shoulders before he turns to Crowley. “Well, it’s rather late, isn’t it?” he says, pushing the bottle back at him, pressing it to Crowley’s chest until he takes a hold of it. “No time to be out and about, I say, we really ought to be going—”

“It’s alright, darling,” Crowley says, his fingers catching Aziraphale’s as his hand retreats, “Forget I asked.”

He catches Aziraphale’s gaze, holds it as he holds his fingers for a moment, before Aziraphale pulls away. “I better be off. It was nice seeing you, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley calls for him, even as the demon steps back and starts walking away. “You too.” 

Crowley watches him turn the corner and fade into the shadows. He sighs, leaning back against the wall, chin up as he looks at the heavens. “So that went down like a lead balloon,” he says to his stars, to whoever is listening. “If that was Your test, I failed. Obviously.”

Per usual, there’s no answer. He pushes himself off the wall by pressing his shoulder into it, bottle of wine dangling from his hand as he walks away from the building, shoes ordered to follow a previous path. 

“I’m starting to think You don’t want me to Fall at all,” he says, as he moves through the streets. “Doesn’t matter what I do, the set is cast. Hang on, has anyone Fallen since the Beginning?”

He thinks about it as he goes. He’s been posted on Earth since Eden, so he can’t really be sure, but he’d have heard of it, surely? Maybe not, he can’t really imagine Gabriel being too pleased to announce it to him. 

“But then again, this whole Falling business is very unbalanced, isn’t it? Losing an angel to gain a demon isn’t quite a one for one, is it? It’s two total advantage for Hell every time it happens. And there’s no climbing back up, just a one way ticket down.” 

He stops, having reached the river Arno at last. A little further down he can see a small boat, and the two ladies boarding it. Four houses away, and he can still sense their love. Moving a bit closer, with a bit of concentration, he can sense at what Aziraphale gave them, a murky, shifting curse filled with good intentions. He waves a hand in their direction, reality shifting once more. Gabriel’s going to reprimand him again for unnecessary blessings, but that’s an issue for another time. 

He takes a large sip from the bottle, and sits down by the river, feet dangling dangerously close to the water as he looks up at the sky again.

“Where was I? Right, right! If You don’t want to risk losing all your angels, You must have decided to put a stop to the whole Falling business at some point, to keep it balanced.”

Crowley looks down at the water, tilting a foot so the tip of his boots touch the water surface, a ripple spreading for a moment, lost quickly in the river current. He takes another sip of wine before he places the bottle beside him, hands resting palms down on the floor behind him, so he can tilt back and look up. Above in the sky, his stars shine bright. 

“I wonder who got to claim the last Fall, the unlucky bastard.”

Yorkshire Coast  
1650 AC

There had been particular a point in history when Crowley was offered the chance to travel by horse, and the occasion provided him with the conclusion that the idea of travelling on such creatures was so uncomfortable that it had to be planted by a demon. No means of transport had seemed to match the diabolical equine until he got aboard the Scarborough.

Sailing across the high sea is not the same as taking a boat down a river or along a coast. Here the sea seems a creature with a mind of its own, an everlasting beast keen on removing unnatural guests off its back. It moves in mountains of waves, slaps the sides of the ship, boards in uninvited. During the day it seems endless, expanding blue in every direction, with nothing but its temptation to shield them from the heat of the sun. At night it seems to vanish but for a whisper of its movement, leaving the ship sailing on nothing, floating in the dark, alone and unguided if not for the stars in the sky.

The Scarborough had left the docks of Dunkin at dusk, following a map, a compass and Crowley’s knowledge of the stars to sail under the cover of the night. Now, day breaks behind the ship, and ahead is their target, revealed by the light of the sun. But so is the Scarborough.

“We’ll catch them shortly,” Captain Lassells announces, pulling down his seeing glass. “Good work, Mr Crowley.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, turning back towards the deck and shouting orders as he strides towards the bridge. Crowley stays right where he is, because it has taken quite a few miracles for him to remain standing on board and he’s trying to avoid needlessly using another. He avoids the labour on the ship, elbows on the bulwark, as he watches them get closer and closer to the other ship. They’ve caught the wind from behind, stolen it from the ship the Scarborough is chasing, and they’re gaining ground fast. What it gives is desperation to the other ship, who sinks its anchor and releases its full sails to catch the wind, slowly turning to face them sideways.

“Oy, look out!” Crowley yells at the navigator, but it’s too late, as the Scarborough shakes, hit with a cannonball.

The attack was unpleasant, but not enough to save the fleeting ship, the Scarborough close enough to throw over nets, and then the navy is jumping after them, holding onto the ropes and climbing on board. Crowley waits until most of the sailors have jumped over before he attempts it himself.

He doesn’t know how humans do it without much thought, Crowley has to fight the urge to bring out his wings as he jumps over, the bottomless sea below. The rope burns his hands as he grabs onto it, the impact from his jump making his shoulder hit the side of the ship hard, the cold wet wood unforgiving. He has to use another miracle to hoist himself up without slipping into the water, and is endlessly thankful for the red bow tied behind his neck, holding his hair away from his face.

He stops once his feet land on the deck, taking a look at the ship they’re overtaking. The fight is underway, pistols dropped as the sailors have already wasted their one shot, now busy with blades in their hands as they fight. The only distinguishable difference between the two groups of humans are the uniforms their wear, a scarlet red on the Yorkshire front, and a dull blue, a color faded by travel, sea salt and the sun, by the others. Among Crowley’s opposition, per usual, there’s a familiar face.

“Aziraphale?” he squints at him, eyebrows pulled together, as he moves closer. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face breaks into a sunny smile before he ducks, hand on the top of his head, holding his three point hat in position as he avoids a slice at his throat, “Now, honestly, this is very uncalled for!”

The redcoat in question doesn’t seem to care for Aziraphale’s sensibilities, swinging at him again. Crowley frowns, coming closer with long strides, a hand on the blade by his side. Aziraphale hasn’t drawn his sword either, stepping to the side as he complains.

“I’m obviously in the middle of a conversation, move along!” he says, shooing the sailor with his hands, but he’s forced to take a step back as the human tries to attack him again. “Now really, shoo!” and he snaps his fingers.

The sailor vanishes from sight in an instant. Crowley slows his step, watching the space the man had been in, and then looks at Aziraphale himself, who is twisting his hands together in front of his stomach, a constipated look on his face.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at Crowley, clearly conflicted, “I’ve never done that before. I hope he didn’t go somewhere too terrible.”

“I do it all the time, don’t worry about it,” Crowley shrugs as he finally stops beside the demon. “Fancy a walk?”

Aziraphale gestures for him to lead the way, and they start walking side by side across the deck towards the bow of the ship, stopping by the edge to look out into the sea. The fight is still happening, now around them, but Crowley didn’t care much for it in the first place, as long as his side won. Aziraphale’s crew is outnumbered, but he doesn’t seem to care either.

“What are you doing with pirates?”

“They’re not pirates, Crowley, they’re privateers,” Aziraphale replies, lifting his chin, “they’re working for the Dutch crown.”

“Being pirates for the crown, you mean.”

“I’m here on work,” Aziraphale finally answers, “I was requested to inspire the crew.”

“Have you now? Uh,” Crowley takes off his glasses, using the shirt he’s wearing as a cloth, rubbing the lenses between two fingers to remove the dry stains from the sea water. “Think of that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered,” he asks, looking up at the demon, eyebrows pulled high in his forehead, “why we’re always working at the same places? Seems like a big coincidence, doesn’t it? Before, I thought Heaven was sending us to the same places, but you’re not working for them at all.”

“You think,” Aziraphale frowns, leaning a bit closer, “you think Heaven and Hell are sending us to work on the same issues?”

“I think we’ve been wasting our time with all of this,” Crowley says, “if I’m out here doing good, and you’re doing evil, we’re just cancelling each other out, aren’t we?”

“Then what do you propose? That we do nothing?”

“Now there’s a thought,” Crowley leans back, mouth pulled into a smirk, “could have some eternally long holidays, go off to have some fun.”

“Crowley! Won’t Heaven notice if you stop working?” Aziraphale asks carefully, a concerned frown on his face.

“Gabriel doesn’t care much for what happens on Earth, as long as I do the occasional miracle,” Crowley says, “they’re sending less orders as time goes by, though. And you? Does Hell care?”

“They.... well,” Aziraphale shifts his weight a bit, a guilty look on his face, “they seem rather convinced that.... that every evil on Earth is done by us. I’ve been commemorated for....” his voice dips a little, in embarrassment and shame, “well, a number of horrible things, if you must know. They sent me an award for the Spanish Inquisition, Crowley, I haven’t been in the area ever since we had those fantastic _huevos rotos_ back in.... oh, 1009?”

“1109, I think,” Crowley reminds him, his mouth still pulled into a smile he can’t seem to hide away. “And you....you just let them think they’re right?”

“I haven’t seen the need to correct them,” Aziraphale says, pulling his shoulders back, turning to look over the sea, and sends a quick glance at Crowley, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. “They’d be ever so disappointed, wouldn’t they? Can’t have that.”

“No, you can’t,” Crowley says, and he can’t believe the warmth in his own voice as he appraises the other, “You clever devil.”

Aziraphale ducks his head, but he can’t seem to hide the pleased smile that lights up his face. He glances at Crowley with bright eyes, like he hasn’t since Sicily, before he looks away again. It takes him a moment to finally rest his sight on Crowley and look at him properly. 

“I’ve heard there is a new published book in London,” Aziraphale says carefully, “Phytologia Britannica, I believe it’s called.”

“A book on plants?” Crowley asks, “Is it any good?”

“I haven’t gotten the chance to look at it so far,” Aziraphale replies, gloved hands held together. “But I’ve heard it’s a success.”

“Hm,” Crowley looks out at the sea for a moment, fingers tapping on the border. He looks up at the sky. If She was expecting him to be able to refuse anything from Aziraphale, then She was very wrong. His head tilts towards Aziraphale as he faces him again. “Suppose it’s time to see how London’s doing.”

Aziraphale’s smile returns to stay, his enthusiasm palpable, and Crowley shoves the glasses back onto his face, lips pressed together to avoid giving himself away. They stand side by side as the Dutch ship is taken over, and they sail back to the British shore. No one notices an angel and a demon leaving the port together.

London  
1764 AC

“So, you’re done with your thing?” Crowley asks, turning his head to look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale isn’t looking back at him, his attention on the elephant they can see behind bars, as they stroll through the Tower Menagerie. Aziraphale had insisted on the meeting point, describing it as a garden filled with wild animals, an edge to his voice that sounded like amusement. The description had taken him back to Eden, when they first met, and Crowley agreed it to be a fitting place for them to witness the passage into a new year. The Tower is vastly different from what he’d pictured, these animals aren’t roaming free, but trapped in cells by people who don’t understand their needs.

“Poor thing,” Aziraphale mutters, frowning at the elephant. “Surely they know he’s not supposed to drink wine. Someone should do something about it,” he says, and then finally looks at Crowley, eyes wide.

“I don’t know, in his position I’d rather be drunk too,” Crowley says, but he waves in a loose gesture towards the cage, turning wine into water. A glance at Aziraphale lets him see his pleased smile, and Crowley looks down, fixing his glasses. “You, uh- your work?”

“Oh, it’s mostly done,” Aziraphale says, “had a very nice conversation with a priest, his soul should belong to Hell in ten years, I’d say.”

“You take so long to get just the one soul,” Crowley shakes his head a bit, “bad management, the way I see it.”

“Yes, yes, Crowley, you’ve said so before,” Aziraphale replies, an open hand in front of him dismissing it.

“Yeah, just, look, I got my orders, just like you, _go bless something, get someone into Heaven_ , yeah? But what’s one soul, what good does helping just the one person do? That’s nothing, there’s so many humans!” Crowley holds out a hand as if to point at all of humanity. “I was supposed to bless this baker to inspire him to turn to planting flowers or something like that, and what good does that do? So I gave him some inspiration in the kitchen, see, and now not only is he happy with his work, but his clients feel happier with the goods they get, and people in good moods are more inclined to be good, which makes other people be in good moods and you get this....what’s the thing, with the pieces that bump and fall? The little blocks you- _Domino_! You get this domino effect of good deeds that get a ton of souls into Heaven instead of just the one.”

“I _know_ , Crowley, so you keep telling me,” Aziraphale says, eyes going up to the sky for a moment, “but that’s just not how things are done Below. And do you really want me to be more efficient in getting people damned?”

Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it, tilting his head. “Well, maybe not.”

“In any case,” Aziraphale says, a bit of smugness coloring his voice, pressing into a corner of his mouth, “Have you heard of the night’s event?”

“The end of the year?” Crowley asks, frowning a bit, “Doubt there’s anyone who doesn’t know. Maybe the Chinese?”

“No, not that. Well, yes, but not just that. Look,” Aziraphale says, a hand landing on Crowley’s forearm, pointing further down the path with the other, “Do you see it?”

It takes a moment for Crowley to manage to look away from their point of contact, eyes dragging away to where Aziraphale instructed, but even then his mind stays on the pressure he feels on his arm from Aziraphale’s gloved hand on his jacket. It’s been centuries since they’ve last touched.

“There are violins,” he says absently, “and flutes, and… there’s going to be a concert?”

“Not just any concert,” Aziraphale says, the pressure on Crowley’s arm intensifying, demanding Crowley’s attention back on the demon, as if it had ever truly left. “It’s been organized by John Wesley, have you heard of him?”

“The priest? He left the Church, didn’t he?”

“He founded his own,” Aziraphale explains. “He’s here to play a concert for the animals.”

“Ah. Do animals even like music? Supposed no one’s asked them. Poor sods, imagine they don’t! Stuck here and they don’t even have the thumbs to plug their ears.”

“You’ve almost got it,” Aziraphale says, squeezing his arm, “I think you’ll rather like this, dear. The music is for the humans to find out if animals have souls.”

“Uh,” Crowley looks at the band again, as they assemble their instruments, “they think the animals will feel the music, and prove it? That’s probably going to go wrong. They hear the sounds differently, it won’t have the same meaning.”

“Does it matter, if they enjoy the music or not?” Aziraphale asks. “The humans can’t tell.”

“Suppose not, unless the animals react to it,” Crowley says, with only a small pause before words starts spilling out again, “But do the animals have to like it to react? They could just..move, couldn’t they? And everyone would think it’s because of the music.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, a bit slower, “it could take a miracle to get a proper reaction.”

“And if humans believe other animals have souls, maybe they’d think twice before stuffing them in cages and feeding them wine,” Crowley says, tilting his head a bit. “Up for a closer look, darling?”

Aziraphale’s hand moves along his arm until it’s tucked into the crook of Crowley’s elbow. “After you.”

Crowley doesn’t dare to look at his arm, at the demon holding it, but he presses on it, feeling Aziraphale’s hand against his ribs as they walk closer to the concert. Some of the musicians are tuning in their instruments, and a crowd gathers closer. A waiter passes by, and Crowley snags two champagne glasses from his tray, careful not to move his left arm too much, as to not make Aziraphale realize he’s still holding it.

Aziraphale uses his free hand to take one, bringing the glass up to his lips, eyes closing as he hums in pleasure, savouring the drink. Crowley looks away before he finishes, taking a sip as well. It bubbles its way down his throat, but the tightness remains.

“I’m not sure if I can make it happen,” he says, looking down at his drink, “Gabriel didn’t understand what I did with the baker, kept going on and on about following the memos to the letter. I’m supposed to be out of miracles for a while.”

“Downstairs won’t be pleased with me if I performed a good deed,” Aziraphale gives him a troubled look, eyebrows pulled together.

Crowley pulls the weight off one foot, leaning a little towards Aziraphale’s side, before looking at him properly. “But is it a good deed? Surely you don’t have to know what the experiment is for, and also— and why would you even know there was a test?”

“If I were to just...cause a little fright, I’m not to blame for humans’ wrong conclusions, am I?” Aziraphale replies, a small smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, a light in his eye. Who knew disobedience was such a flattering look?

“Humans come up with the oddest things to explain away the occult,” Crowley agrees.

“I have to be honest, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his tone somber, “the Tower is not quite what I imagined it to be. I’d thought it to be something reminiscent of where we first met, and thought it fitting to celebrate the passage of time, but this place.... It feels spooky, doesn’t it?”

“Spooky?” Crowley frowns.

“Yes, the feeling you get when you walk into a place and you say “it feels spooky”.”

“I never say that,” Crowley replies, squinting his eyes a bit, trying to find said aura, “all I feel is.... love.”

“Love?” Aziraphale turns his head quickly to face him.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, a bit gentler, before adding quickly, “I mean, love that others feel, like, like the humans or the elephant. I can sense love.”

“You.... you can sense love,” Aziraphale repeats, his hold on Crowley’s arm tightening, and then relaxing completely, his fingers sliding away.

“Yeah, didn’t you, before you Fell?”

“Is there really love to be felt in Heaven?” Aziraphale asks, but his eyes are on his glass.

Crowley chuckles, shaking his head. “Right, ‘course not.”

“But if there was, would you feel it?”

“Yeah, it’s not just from beings on Earth,” Crowley says, “I feel yours.”

“You do? Oh.” Aziraphale looks at him, his now free hand twitching against his stomach. “Right. That’s....tickety boo.”

“Are you alright?” Crowley leans close. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, just… you always knew? You never said, Crowley.”

“Didn’t think there was anything to talk about,” Crowley shrugs.

There’s an odd look on Aziraphale’s face. “I see.”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley says, bringing the glass up to his lips again, “I won’t tell Hell.”

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale gives him a quick smile, which fades fast, “thank you, dear.”

Crowley almost comments that Aziraphale’s love of Earth was one of the reasons that him being a demon came as such a shock, but he hesitates. Aziraphale already looks a bit upset, as he is every time they bring up the subject of his demonhood. Instead, Crowley places a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back. “Come on, darling, I think they’re about to start.”

A little after the start of the concert, it has to be stopped abruptly, people exclaiming in shock over the music as they see most of the animals swaying to the tune, several on their hind legs even. Crowley bites down a smirk, eyes straining from the display to the quietly smug demon by his side, who by this disaster has seem to have gotten over his mood. There’s something wicked in Aziraphale that never fails to accelerate Crowley’s heartbeat, and this is no exception. 

Afterwards, after long hours through the gardens, champagne always in their glasses, they part ways. Crowley stumbles home on his own, turning to his inside garden to check over his plants before a well deserved nap. He’s rubbing a leaf with his fingertips, quietly judging them, and he thinks it’s good the plants can’t sense love, or they wouldn’t fear failing him.

“Oh,” he tells them, realizing it for what it is. He gets no reply, so Crowley looks up to the ceiling. “Oh no.”

If someone above is listening, they don’t reply either. 

London  
1823 AC

The schedule note on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop is long and confusing, but more often than not, it has a very clear message. Today was one of those days, with a sign posted on the door in big, bold letters, in which the word closed is written in all capitals.

Crowley’s mouth gets out of control, the side pulling into a smile everytime he sees it, it had been a gift of his to the demon, once he realized that by ‘bookshop’ Aziraphale meant something more of a ‘library’, where people could come in and look at the books. Although ‘looking at the books’ meant something like ‘reading the spine and not touching the books’, so in a way, it was more of a museum playing at a bookshop. The sign, Crowley had realized, was a good way to pass that message.

By ‘passing that message’, of course, he meant ‘keep people out’, which turned out to be exactly what Aziraphale wanted. Crowley doesn’t complain either, he likes to show up often in the shop, and it’s all the better when it’s just the two of them. Even if he does enjoy watching Aziraphale chasing clients around the shop and politely making sure no one ever buys anything.

He knocks on the door, over the sign. “Oy, Aziraphale! You in?”

“One moment, please!”

Crowley waits, listening, content for now with the sounds of Aziraphale moving books around, pacing across the wooden floor to reach the door. The bookshop has been a recurring place for them to meet, ever since Aziraphale opened it twenty odd years before. Aziraphale seems to have settled well into London, and it’s nice, the thought of knowing that no matter where he goes, there’s the one familiar place he can land on, without relying on fate or long travelled messages for them to meet.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face lights up as he opens the door, quickly moving aside. “Come on in, dear.”

Crowley follows him inside, pulling off his top hat as he heads for the coat hanger. He throws the hat at it, but he’s careful with the jacket as he removes it, to not disturb the weights he brought in its inside pockets.

“Tea? Or are you in the mood for some rosé? It’s such a pleasant day, I rather think it calls for it.”

“Rosé sounds nice,” Crowley keeps the jacket, hanging it over an arm as he goes further into the shop.

He finds their usual spot in the backroom, and sits down on one of the couches, leg crossed so his foot rests on his knee, arm thrown over the back of the couch. The jacket hangs on the armrest, and from where he sits, Crowley can see Aziraphale bringing the wine from the small kitchen.

“I wasn’t expecting you today, dear, what brings you here?” Aziraphale sits on the next sofa, a bottle and two wine glasses set on the small table between them.

“Oh,” Crowley says, an elbow now resting over the jacket. “Er. Not much. I, uh, figured you could do with the company.”

Aziraphale looks at him, eyebrows raised, his mouth forming a smug smile.

“What were you up to?” Crowley asks, reaching for the bottle.

An angel would not have allowed for that unsubtle change of subject, so it’s really nice that’s not the sort of company he keeps. “I was reorganizing one of the bookshelves. Some people came in earlier today, and they kept picking up books and leaving them in different places, it was a complete nightmare.”

“How inappropriate,” Crowley comments, as he opens the bottle with a small pop. He pours the wine generously. 

“It was a whole group,” Aziraphale continues, taking one of the glasses, “it was such a hassle to get them all to leave the shop.”

“Well,” Crowley takes his own glass, keeping his eyes on it, “now that I’m stationed in London I might come by next time and help.”

“Are you really?” Aziraphale’s face blooms with a smile, “How wonderful, Crowley, for how long?”

“Until the forces of Evil stop tormenting this place, I suppose,” Crowley gives him a small shrug, drinking the wine so he doesn’t have to look at him. It had taken feeding a lot of bullshit to Gabriel for him to be allowed his stay.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice as warm and gentle as a blanket, wrapping around Crowley and compelling him to let go of everything. “Do you...”

“I’ve bought a flat,” Crowley says, looking at Aziraphale through his lenses. “South St. James Park.”

“Oh. Good, good,” Aziraphale says, glancing down at his own glass and taking a sip. “Fantastic news. You know you can visit whenever you wish.”

“Thanks. And, uh, you too. I’ve got something for you,” he adds quickly, turning to his jacket, hand digging into the inside pocket to pull out a parcel. He feels its weight with a hand, before throwing it at Aziraphale’s lap. “There.”

“Crowley, you shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale says, sounding extremely pleased, already untying the bow, fingers careful on the knot.

“Eh, it’s nothing,” Crowley shrugs, leaning back on the couch, arm thrown over the back, in a thoughtfully relaxed pose. 

Aziraphale stills as he pulls the paper aside, the first hardcover revealed. His touch is gentle, fingertips brushing over the title, pausing as well as they reach the author. Aziraphale looks up at him again, eyes wide. “Crowley,” he says, almost in a breath.

“Technically it’s not a first edition,” Crowley says, taking off his glasses, eyes down as he cleans them up, “but it’s the first with her name, figured that’d be better. I mean, you really liked the first one, but when we saw the play a month ago you said—”

“I said I wish I knew who could write such loneliness,” Aziraphale says gently. 

Crowley remembers, the night they went to see _Presumption; or the Fate of Frankenstein_ , the quiet outrage Aziraphale displayed at the changes from the original novel to the play, but also the brightness of his eyes by the end, and his admiration for the actor who had played the creature. Crowley himself, who has better things to do than reading books, had finally understood the way Aziraphale praises the story. 

“Yeah. Well, now you do.” Crowley is about to raise his hand, to put his glasses back on, when Aziraphale’s hand lands over his own, stopping it against his lap.

“My dear,” Aziraphale asks, something growing in the room, “did you do this?”

“Nah, nothing much to it.” With the play’s success, it hadn’t been hard to reach the book’s publisher, and then its true author. “Just had a few chats. The book comes out in a couple of days, anyway, just figured you’d like to have it.”

Crowley’s fingers twitch, an itch under his skin to put his glasses back on and shield himself, but Aziraphale’s grip on his hand tightens as if to prevent that. There’s a swelling emotion growing in the room, a warm, engulfing feeling that emanates from Aziraphale, dense and profound, a tide Crowley has no choice but to breathe in.

“Oh,” he says, his free hand going to rub at his chest, over his heart, eyes on the demon. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale pulls his hand back, eyes downcast. “Forgive me, my dear, I know you don’t want this, I just- oh, I can’t seem to help it,” his voice trembles a bit, cheeks rosy, a hand on his own chest, as if to hold back the waves of love he keeps pouring out. “How terribly embarrassing. I should...”

“It’s alright,” Crowley says quickly, not understanding nor wishing to prolong his distress, “I know you love this book, I—”

“The book?” Aziraphale looks at him in confusion.

“That’s not what you...? Oh—”

“Crowley-”

“This is not… for the book?” he asks slowly, heart pumping loudly in his chest.

“Crowley.” He doesn’t know how Aziraphale manages to look embarrassed and patronizing at the same time, he hasn’t met anyone else with the same skill.

“You- I thought-” Crowley can’t seem to finish any line of thought, much less a sentence, his mind running too fast for him to connect the threads. The conclusion should be obvious, but Crowley has spent centuries telling himself there was no hope for such a thing, and biology has turned it into his natural response. 

“You’ve told me, you can sense it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says slowly, frowning a bit. “Surely this.... This isn’t news to you.”

“I can’t tell what it’s for,” Crowley says, fingers itching. “And you always... ‘thought it was about, you know. Earth. Pastries and books,” his eyes land on the volumes held between Aziraphale’s hands. “Not... not me.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently, and it’s with herculean effort that Crowley looks up at his face again. There’s a shine on Aziraphale’s eyes, a warmth in his gaze, a turn of the lips that is almost a smile. “My dearest.”

Crowley’s heart is up in his throat, trying to go past his jaw, over his tongue, and slide between his lips, into the open air. “Yours?” it comes out.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, his hands clutching at the books, “if that’s alright with you, of course.”

“If that’s— yes, it’s, uh, it’s alright,” Crowley stumbles out. “Just fine.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says softly. He takes a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling with the movement, and then speaks clearly again. “Now, I have to find a place on my shelves for this,” he says, lifting the books. “Shall I put them alongside the Anonymous version? No, that should be quite rude to Mary Shelley, I must replace them.”

“What? Aziraphale,” Crowley asks, watching Aziraphale get up. “Wait.”

Aziraphale holds the books against his chest. “What is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, figured we’d talk about this.” Crowley says, getting up, feet already trailing after him.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, not meeting his eye.

“But you…”

“Yes.”

“And... and me too,” Crowley says eloquently.

“And I’m a demon,” Aziraphale says firmly. 

“Yeah, I’ve known that for a while now,” Crowley says, stopping next to him, raising his eyebrows. “Around five centuries, give or take. You were there, I believe? Italy?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Aziraphale says prickly, but his shoulders drop. “So you know why nothing can change.”

“Bullshit,” Crowley draws out, wishing he still had his glasses on. “Why mention it at all, then?”

“Because I thought you knew and didn’t want it, Crowley!” Aziraphale says, turning to face him properly, eyebrows pulled together, “And it’s wonderful— my dear, it’s— “ he closes his mouth in a thin line, looking up for a moment, before he continues, voice a little steadier, “It doesn’t mean we should do anything about it.”

“I never expected anything to change between us, darling,” Crowley’s eyes are restless, all over Aziraphale’s face, trying to understand what he needs. “It doesn’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“This is not about what I want.” Aziraphale shakes his head, looking away. “Do believe me, my dear, I love you immensely."

"Aziraphale," Crowley mumbles, everything in him rendered useless. His fingers touch Aziraphale’s, curling around them, unable to keep away. 

“You could Fall for this,” Aziraphale says, his voice heavy. His eyes are down at the hold on his hand. “I won’t risk it.”

“Isn’t that my risk to take?”

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale asks, mouth filled with tension. “I couldn’t bear to be your ruin.”

“Think if I were to Fall for loving you, I’d have taken the dive ages ago,” Crowley says, sliding a little closer, eyes on Aziraphale’s. “She’d be late by a lot of millenia.”

There’s a clear conflict in Aziraphale’s face, at the pull of his eyebrows, the hand clutched in Crowley’s. His mouth opens and closes, unsure. "You must know what Heaven would do, if they knew."

“My feelings won’t change,” Crowley replies, tilting his head. “Sod them all to Hell if they think they can do something about it.”

“You know they—”

“I haven’t Fallen,” Crowley insists, bringing his free hand to Aziraphale’s face, his heart drumming loudly as he cups his soft cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with loving you, Aziraphale.”

"I... oh, Crowley," Aziraphale lets out, his voice shaky, leaning into his touch.

“I love you,” Crowley says, closer now, closer than they’ve ever been, “That’s no sin. Whatever you want, darling, it’s yours.”

There’s a long moment of silence, of them breathing together as Crowley waits, hopes, for the conflict in Aziraphale’s face to clear.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice comes hesitant, his name as careful and soft as a prayer, “may I… may I tempt you to a kiss?”

Crowley grins wide, his heart soaring. “Temptation accomplished.”

Aziraphale smiles back at him, his eyes dropping to his mouth, and then up again at him, a silent question. Crowley leans towards him reply, nose brushing Aziraphale’s as he tilts his head, before closing the distance between them. 

It’s a soft press of lips that warms him up inside, gentle as the fingers Aziraphale brings to his hair, as the hand on his hip, pulling him in. He’s smiling into the kiss, and then against Aziraphale’s smile, both grinning too much to keep on kissing. Crowley rests his forehead on Aziraphale’s, nuzzling his nose on his cheek, his hands cradling Aziraphale’s face, holding him close, pressing small kisses on his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, grinning as Aziraphale blooms into it, laughter filling his face.

“Seems I’m still here,” Crowley says, his grin turning cheeky, “No damnation for me, I’m afraid. Well, unless _you_ count as—”

“Oh, hush, you,” Aziraphale grins, pulling him into another kiss.

London  
11 years before the End

Crowley walks slowly, his step wide and firm, the echo of his shoes hitting the floor filling the silent room as he moves, his arms crossed behind his back, eyes focused as he surveys his plants. He stops in front of a philodendron, leaning in, eyes almost squinting as he examines one of its leaves. A hand comes up, and he snaps his fingers, speaking dryly. “Let there be light.”

The room illuminates, shining light onto the leaf in question. He can feel the tension in the plant as it holds itself still for him. The hand comes down, thumb rubbing over the two yellow spots on the otherwise immaculate leaf.

“You should know better than this.” He says calmly, looking up from the spots to the center of the plant, “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed. ”

The leaf quivers slightly under his touch, and he releases it, straightening himself up again, another snap of his fingers removing the divine light. “I’m sure when I return you’ll have learnt from your mistake, won’t you?”

He doesn’t wait to see the effects of his words, moving along the line to examine the next plant. He pauses suddenly, as the two presences he was feeling downstairs disappear. He wonders if it’s safe to come to the bookshop now.

“Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice from below, not sounding entirely like himself. “Could you come here, my dear?”

“Coming!” he calls out, and points at the plant he was going to inspect next. “Don’t think this means you can slack off, we’ll pick up from where we left off in a bit.”

He goes out of the flat, downstairs two steps at a time in a rush to join Aziraphale. He makes a face at the smell he’s faced with, a reek that must come from Hell, from the two demons who had been there moments ago. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale appears from behind a shelf, missing his jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Crowley needs a moment before his eyes go up to Aziraphale’s face, noticing his wide eyes, the slight disarray of his hair. 

“They’ve come bearing news,” Aziraphale says, as he ushers Crowley further into the shop to the small kitchen area. On top of the table rests a wooden picnic basket. “And they entrusted me with this,” he says, his voice quieter.

“What’s in it?” Crowley lowers his voice as well.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, glancing at him, “The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.”

Crowley stills, eyes fixed on the otherwise ordinary basket. Fingers run through his hair, stopping on the back of his head, pressing against his scalp as if he could sink them into his brain. His hand drops, empty, but his feet move, two steps closer to the table, and then one back, looking at Aziraphale again. “That him? In there? ...Already?”

Aziraphale nods, lips held tight, hands interlocked over his stomach.

Crowley points at it with his thumb. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Just don’t wake him up.”

Crowley closes the distance to the table, one hand behind his back, the other pressing slightly on the edge of the lid, lifting it just enough for a peek. Inside he sees the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, who looks like a wrinkled raisin. Raisins are, of course, particularly satanic, but Crowley presumes the similarity lies with the age of the baby, and not on the ties to his father. He might be wrong.

He closes the lid again, and returns to Aziraphale’s side. “We got anything to drink?”

“I’ve a nice Port saved up,” Aziraphale motions for him to leave the room, “there might be no reason for it anymore, I’ll go fetch it. Sit down.”

Crowley sinks into Aziraphale’s couch, positioning his head so it rests on the back of the couch while still allowing him a view into the kitchen where the basket waits. What will they do now? The end of the world, in what, a decade? That’s nothing, that’s no time at all. 

Aziraphale comes into the room, holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Crowley watches in silence as he places the tray gently on the small side table, pouring a glass for each. They were supposed to have time.

Crowley holds both glasses as Aziraphale sits down next to him, and hands one over. Aziraphale’s hand closes over his own, eyes meeting for a moment, before he pulls himself into the couch, cradling the glass with both hands.

“We’ve got to do something,” Crowley says, restless. He takes a large sip of the drink. 

“Remember when we met?” Aziraphale says, eyes bright as they look at each other. “What we spoke about?”

“That blasted rain,” Crowley says, tilting his head a bit. “What about it?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “The Ineffable Plan,” he reminds him, “you told me... you told me She has a plan, and that everything happens for a reason. We’ll all do our part, in the end.”

“Ah,” Crowley glances away. “Right, yeah, that.”

“I think this is why I Fell, Crowley,” Aziraphale says carefully, voice trembling slightly, “I think it was for this moment. I was handed the Antichrist, and I think,” he takes in a shaky breath, “I think I ought to kill him.”

Crowley blinks, eyebrows up high on his forehead. He puts down the wine glass, and glances away from Aziraphale, back to the basket. One day what’s inside will bring on all the powers from Hell, burn the land and summon the seas to drown it, boil what’s left and doom all living things. Right now, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, is a raisin. 

He looks at Aziraphale, at this being he knows like no other, who scoffs at unruly costumers, who’s learnt stupid magic tricks, who touches Crowley with a tenderness he hasn’t known before. “Have you killed before?”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale looks down at his lap, “I don’t know if I have it in me, but there’s no one else, is there? A sin such as this would cause you to Fall, no other demon would entertain the idea. And one child, in exchange for the world? Do you think God wants to see all of Her creations destroyed?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley shrugs a bit, tense, “I’ve been leaving voicemails for millenia, She hasn’t gotten back to me yet. Maybe She’s done with all of this.”

“But I’m not,” Aziraphale says, “and neither are you, Crowley. Would She really want to start a war? Would you? We’ll be on opposite sides, dear, and I can’t.... ”

Crowley is faced with the image of the war on Hell, of coming face to face with Aziraphale, on being ordered to kill each other. He could never. But he also can’t picture Aziraphale killing anyone. He looks at him, at the softness of his demon, brows pulled together in concern as he sees him tense with distress.

“I.... we won’t fight,” Crowley says, leaning closer, “but won’t Hell know if you kill Satan’s child?”

“I... I suppose they might,” Aziraphale says, biting his lip, “and then…”

“Then they’d destroy you,” Crowley finishes for him, tightening his grip on Aziraphale’s hands. “Out of the question, darling.”

“But it would save the world,” Aziraphale’s eyes are on Crowley, trying to make him understand.

“No. Not if that’s what it takes,” Crowley says firmly. “Besides, can’t they just,” he twirls a hand in the air, “pop out another?”

“Oh, you’re right,” Aziraphale says, his voice uneven. He brings a hand up to his face, covering his eyes. “Oh…”

“Hey, no,” Crowley finds himself moving closer as he grabs Azriaphale’s hand, pulling it away from his face. Aziraphale’s eyes are brighter, and now Crowley can tell it’s from held back tears. “Aziraphale.”

“Hastur handed me the basket and the first thing- oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says shakily, “the first thing I thought was that I should kill it, and the thought was so awful-”

“Darling,” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s other hand, holding both of them between his own, gently applying pressure as if to will them to stop shaking.

“But I’ve been waiting for so long to find the reason, where I fit in Her plan. I thought… I thought this was it.” Aziraphale looks at him, eyes shining, “I thought this was why I Fell.”

Questions burn on Crowley’s tongue, but Aziraphale has been burnt enough for a lifetime. Aziraphale’s mouth twitches into a watery smile, and Crowley bows his head, pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s fingers. These hands weren’t made for harm.

“I remember seeing you in the Garden, before it happened,” Aziraphale says, “I was on my post by the Eastern gate, and saw you peel an orange and bite into a segment. The breeze carried the citrus flavour,” a small, honest smile graces his face. “My first appetite.” 

Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s hand, heart pumping loudly in his chest. His gaze stays on Aziraphale’s face, dropping it to his lips. He remembers his first hunger well.

“I knew there were fights in Heaven,” Aziraphale continues, “Angels were Falling, and all it took was asking questions. So, when I was called Upstairs for a new task, I didn’t question it. Nor when Annael told me what to do, because- well, I rather thought it made sense, and who was I to Doubt? I didn’t know she was about to Fall.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says gently, but doesn’t know how to continue. His curiosity always gets the best of him.

“It seemed reasonable enough, that the two humans should know right from wrong,” Aziraphale says, “the tree had been planted as a test and a reward, I was told, and they’d passed the test. I was... I was instructed to let them know they should eat an apple.”

“You…”

“The first temptation, the original sin,” Aziraphale raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if to make little of the action in question. “As soon as Eve bit into the apple, I… well. That was it.”

“But that… we met that day,” Crowley frowns a bit.

“I Fell into the desert,” Aziraphale recalls, “found my way back to the garden just in time for the rain. You were the first I spoke to after... after it happened. I was so lost, Crowley,” he puts a hand over Crowley’s. “And you reminded me there’s a purpose for everything.”

“It’s not this,” Crowley says, leaning closer, “It’s not— look, who cares if there’s a plan? If it happens it happens, and if it doesn’t, you won’t know either way. Worrying about it won’t help. If Her plan is that Ineffable, it will happen whether you try or not. You just— we just have to do right by ourselves. Your purpose is to be yourself, to be just as you are, that’s it! That’s all there is to life, it’s feeling and thinking and believing and doing our best.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gives him a small smile, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. “That was rather moving.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugs, eyes down for a second, but he can’t look away for long. “There’s no point in guessing what She wants, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve you killing a baby. Why did they give you the kid?”

“The Adversary, Destroyer of—”

“Yeah, yeah, the kid,” Crowley interrupts him. “Why is he with you?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinks, “Well. There’s a convent of Satanic nuns, some very nice ladies, always good for a chat. I’m supposed to help them switch an ambassador's newborn for the… the child. Oh, I’ll need a ride there.”

“Of course, anything you need,” Crowley says, “and then what? Just let him loose in the world?”

“No, I was entrusted with the task to raise him, I'll have you know,” Aziraphale says, “make sure he comes out… Evil enough to want to destroy the world.”

“And if you don’t do that?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale gives a small shrug, looking away.

“Right, that’s a no on that.” Crowley frowns, looking down at their hands, fingertips tapping into the back of Aziraphale’s hand as he thinks. “We could...we... us!” he looks up, excited. “Aziraphale, we could do it, the two of us. You swap the kid as planned, and then we both teach what we’ve got to teach about both sides and it’s like our agreement, we’ll cancel each other out. We’d be…”

“Godfathers,” Aziraphale says, a smile on his face, “and the child might grow… average?”

“Average kids don’t want to destroy the world,” Crowley says, and then squints, tilting his head, “well, not most of them, at least.”

“We could do it,” Aziraphale says almost in a question.

“Together,” Crowley answers.

Aziraphale smiles wide at him, face lighting up with relief and hope, and Crowley would risk any end of the world to see it again and again. They’ll save it in a few years. Maybe.

They really won’t, but there is no need to worry. Some things are ineffable.


End file.
